


The Composition of Dreams

by sunkelles



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Aromantic Character, Dreams vs. Reality, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Well more implied but I think it counts, but i am going to warn for this just in case, i don't think the consent is dubious enough to tag it for noncon, make of this what you will
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-09
Updated: 2014-07-09
Packaged: 2018-02-08 04:08:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1926171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunkelles/pseuds/sunkelles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Camelot is perfect, aside from an ominous feeling in the wind, a wrongness that Merlin can’t place.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	The Composition of Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> A few things  
> 1\. This isn't as much a romance as a big, long character study of multiple characters. Just a warning. If you didn't care about the summary and are reading this solely for the merthur you're probably gonna be disappointed. It exists, but it's not the focal point of the fic.  
> 2\. Also, implied aromantic Morgana gives me life.  
> 3\. The tone of this hops all around. There is also an overuse of the words dread, ominous, and eerie.  
> 4\. The consent in this is mildly dubious, but I didn't think that it warranted an all out rape warning. This is the warning.  
> 5\. Disclaimer: I don't own the term the Collective Unconscious and I do not coin it. That was coined by Jung. It's kind of interesting, so if you've never heard of it you might like to look it up.  
> 6\. Enjoy the fic friends!

Camelot is the picture of perfection. The castle’s stones are a pristine, white marble. The people prosper. Magic thrives. The king is a healthy man with more skill with a sword than almost any knight. The prince is a handsome young man with an easy smile, golden blond hair and even more sword fighting skill than his father. And the crown princess, shining jewel of the kingdom, is a skilled sorceress.   
The sun always shines. The crops grow high and the yields are higher. Famine is as unknown to the peasants as it is to the aristocracy. The knights are gallant and chivalrous, none more than Sir Lancelot.   
The lady Morgause is everything the king’s stepdaughter should be. She is dutiful and calm in court, and a living tempest with a sword. She and Prince Arthur fight constantly for the slot of top knight. This is playful bickering by two half siblings, a rivalry no more harmful than teasing.   
There are no overly complicated plots of revenge or assassination. There are no assassination attempts at all. The people love their just king who has brought an age of peace and prosperity to their land. They love the man who fell for a widow and raised her daughter as his own.   
The neighboring kings respect Camelot, or they fear it. They fear the king who conquered his own kingdom and built it into an empire, the son who is a prodigy with a sword, and the princess who is thought to have the most powerful magic in all of the world.  
The castle servants are well known for being efficient, kind, and loyal. Gwen, Princess Morgana’s maid servant, is one of the most well-liked people in the land, and the princess’ trusted confidant. Gaius ages slowly and gracefully, treating the populace with patience, consideration, and wisdom. And then there is big-eared Merlin, never seen without a guileless grin and a tattered neckerchief. He is blunt, naive and friendly in a way that only a country boy can be, and the only thing (sans Morgause and Morgana) that prevents the prince from becoming too pompous. Merlin is wide-eyed innocence incarnate, until he isn’t.   
Camelot is perfect, aside from an ominous feeling in the wind, a wrongness that Merlin can’t place. And slowly, everything begins to unravel, because Merlin starts to remember.

* * *

 It starts slowly, the process of remembrance. He starts to notice little things that don’t feel right, continuity errors in his own narrative. 

It starts out small. He finds his memories of his arrival in Camelot fuzzy. In the back of his mind, Merlin knows that the memory of awkwardly greeting Gaius is false. In the back of his mind, he has recollections of a beheading, an angered mother, a dragon, and a fall. But the dragons roam free. There has never been one imprisoned underneath the castle. And there are no executions in Camelot. Magic is not forbidden.  It is celebrated, like the lady Morgause, the princess Morgana, and Gaius himself. Merlin tries to laugh it off.   
“You’re imagining things, Merlin,” he thinks. And he writes it off as an odd daydream.

* * *

 

The next incident occurs on the training field. The sky is clear and the sun shines brightly, as tends to be the case in Camelot. He helps Arthur suit up, exchanging jibes along the way, and it seems natural. Natural in a way Merlin craves. His hands on Arthur’s armor, Arthur’s chest, feel natural- _right_. He feels something curl in his belly, but pushes it swiftly away. Merlin hands Arthur his sword with some lewd joke, and Arthur pretends that it offends his sensibilities. Merlin stands to the side, taking a spot beside Gwen, and consequently, Morgana.   
“Do you think they’ll always do this?” Gwen asks with a hint of amusement in her voice.   
“As long as they’re both alive,” Morgana says with levity, “neither of them can ever resist competition.”  
“Who won last week?” Gwen asks.   
“Arthur,” Morgana says, “but we all know that Morgause won’t let him keep the title for long.” Gwen chances a glance at Lancelot, and then Morgana grins at her.   
“You can go to him, Gwen,” she says. Gwen smiles and stumbles out an apology as she walks towards her knight.   
“Merlin,” she says to him.   
“Your highness,” he replies, even though he never bothers with Arthur. He’s not sure why.   
She smiles at him, fondness on her features and says, “you can call me Morgana, you know.”   
“Of course, Morgana,” he says. He feels on edge. Maybe it’s just because she is the crown princess.   
“You’ve been in Camelot a long while, now,” she says, “a year and a half. And you’ve been Arthur’s servant as long as that. We’re on a first name basis.” Merlin isn’t sure if that’s how he’s been in Camelot or not. Everything is so fuzzy.   
“You’re good for him,” she says, unbidden, and then Merlin looks to her. She’s grinning giddily. Merlin can’t help but smile in return.   
“They’re about to start,” she says. Merlin turns his attention back to the grassy training field, and to the siblings. Neither is wearing a helmet, but both sets of armor shimmer in the sunlight. Merlin is proud of how his polishing has improved. Even though he isn’t sure he ever remembers polishing at all. Morgause’s hair of platinum blonde flies free on her head, which might not be a strategic advantage, and Arthur’s own blond hair shines gold in the sunlight. They meet each other, their eyes locking, and they draw their swords. The fighting is fast, loud, and furious. Arthur sparring with a knight and Arthur fighting with Morgause are two different beasts. He tends to go easy on a knight, many are young and inexperienced, but Arthur’s sister is just as skilled as he is. If he hopes to win, he has to put his all into it. He does, as does she. His stokes are powerful and bold, but hers are swift and precise. They are equals in the field.   
“Are these fights always this intense?” he asks. He looks to Morgana, who is sporting a look of confusion and disbelief, and if he is not mistaken, there is fear in her face as well.  
“Merlin,” she says, “you’ve seen them dual a hundred times. They do it every week.” The knowledge hits Merlin like a herd of cattle.   
“Of course,” he lies, more swiftly than he is comfortable with.  
“I just meant to ask if you thought they always will be,” he says, the rest of the lie coming to his lips unbidden.   
“I hope so,” she says, a devious smirk on her lips, “their fights are the most entertaining thing in the kingdom.” Merlin pauses for a moment, and takes a deep breath. He wonders for a moment about mental afflictions, but pushes the thought aside.  
They move almost in unison for a moment, blow meeting blow, before Morgause trips Arthur. He falls to his knees and tries to get up, but Morgause puts a strong hand to his back. She quickly puts the edge of her sword to the back if his neck.   
“Do you yield?” She asks, her voice as calm as ever.   
“Yes,” he says. Images flash through his mind, Morgause, with an ax to Arthur’s neck, a woman brought back from the dead, and himself, breaking up a fight between Uther and Arthur. His breath catches in his chest. Maybe he _does_ have some grave, mental affliction.   
“Morgause is first knight until she is beaten,” Morgana declares. Morgause smiles and grasps her sword. Arthur frowns, but not terribly. He knows this is a temporary situation. He beckons Merlin over to him, and Merlin goes without a second thought.

* * *

It’s the afternoon. The sun is shining brightly and Gaius has herbs that need collecting. This is not new. At least, Merlin does not think that it is new. It feels familiar. It’s a sort of herb used in potion-making that smells of lavender and helps with healing. Merlin doesn’t remember the name but he remembers the look and he remembers the smell, so he does not feel uncomfortable setting out that afternoon in search of some. The sky is a bright blue and the world feels warm and light. The grass is a bright green and soft beneath his boots. The air smells sweet and clean, of grass and flowers and a hint of the past night’s rain. The sunlight is soft, unlike it is in midsummer, and does not pierce completely through the canopy. Merlin is thoroughly enjoying himself, so of course, he finds the herbs quickly.

He picks them with a sigh, and wonders how he could plausibly stay outside for a little bit longer. He smells the sweet scent of flowers and gets an idea which is not at all manly. He doesn’t particularly care.

* * *

 

 He finds Gwen walking hurriedly through the halls.

“Gwen!” he says, and she turns her attention to him.

“Merlin,” she says, and then she looks to the white, fluffy bundle in his hand, “Are those flowers?”

“Uh, yes,” he says. Then he holds them out to her.

“Oh Merlin,” Gwen says, making wide gestures with his hands, “this is so sweet but Lance and I-“

Merlin grins, “I’m not trying to steal you away from Lance, I promise.” He holds up his hands in surrender as effectively as he can while clutching a large bouquet of flowers.

Then he points to the flowers.

“Those are friendship flowers,” he says.

Gwen laughs a hearty, friendly laugh.

“Alright,” she says and she takes them from him.

“Make sure that some of those go to the Princess Morgana and the Lady Morgause,” he says.

“I promise,” she says, and then she smirks, “I won’t keep all your friendship to myself.”

* * *

 

 He walks through the halls, a basket of laundry clutched against his chest. The halls are always full of life, people bustling from one job to another, but seldom does he run into Arthur when he doesn’t expect him.

“Merlin,” he hears, and for a moment he’s confused.

“Merlin,” he hears again, and this time it is louder and more annoyed. Merlin turns abruptly around.

“I heard that Morgana and Morgause got flowers,” he says. Merlin raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t respond. What is he supposed to say?

“When will I be getting mine?” Arthur asks, and for a moment, Merlin expects him to burst out laughing. He must be kidding. The prince does not smile in a jovial manner, and Merlin realizes that he is not in fact joking.

“You want flowers?” Merlin asks incredulously.

“My sisters both got some,” he says, “I would expect that I would too.”

“You’re jealous,” Merlin asks, “over flowers?”

“Of course not,” Arthur says, “I just think that if you give a man’s sisters flowers, then it can be expected that he would receive some as well.” Merlin just shakes his head, but he feels a strange sense of déjà vu. Like he’s had this same basic conversation before, and it’s unsettling.

“Fine,” he says, and he doesn’t understand how he’s not laughing aloud yet, “I’ll go pick you some flowers.”

Arthur’s face lights up like a struck flint. Merlin smiles and something curls in his belly.

Then, Arthur puts on a more serious face, “You should probably finish up that laundry first.” Merlin can’t even find it in him to cast the man a proper glare as he walks by.

* * *

 

 After he’s finished with everything, he slips a bouquet of flowers on the prince’s table. Merlin is a man of his word.

* * *

 

 Tournaments in Camelot are lavish, regal affairs, or so Merlin’s been told. He’s starting to see it too, with the nobles arriving on well-groomed, thoroughbred horses with banners as bright and distinctive as the Pendragon crest itself. The atmosphere is festive and bright, and the happy ballads of bards travel through the air.

“This is exciting,” Merlin hears himself say to Gwen.

“Yes,” Gwen says, a large, genuine smile curling across her face, “The tournaments always are.”

“Tournaments?” Merlin asks, “There’s more than one?”

“Of course,” Gwen says, “A knights’ tournament and a mages’ tournament.” Merlin is sure that he looks terribly lost, so Gwen elaborates.

“Arthur always fights in the standard tournament,” Gwen says, “Morgause hops about. Morgana always competes in the magic tournament.”

“Tournaments are always the best time to be in Camelot,” she continues, and she seems to be gleefully rambling now, “The atmosphere’s so festive and bright. Did you ever go to any tournaments when you were younger?”

Merlin tries to think back, but he doesn’t remember. His childhood seems to be a blank. He remembers his mum, and Ealdor, and Will, but there are no specific events. It’s fuzzy.

“No,” he lies, “Ealdor wasn’t big enough for any of that. “

“Oh,” Gwen replies, “That makes sense.” Merlin feels a sense of dread.

* * *

 

 The battles blur together, as do the duels. Merlin frankly doesn’t remember much, other than the fact that Arthur and Morgana won all of their fights. Morgause did not compete. Morgana has taken the victory in the mages’ tournament, and now is the final round of the knights’ tourney. Arthur is up against a foreign knight. The man is built like a tree. His skin is thick, dark and harsh like bark, and his hair wiry and untamed like leaves. His face is scarred and unforgiving. Any other man would flinch from him. But Arthur Pendragon is no ordinary man.

Arthur removes his sword and faces him. His opponent makes the first move, which is not a good strategy. Arthur blocks the blow easily. He tries for a low jab, but Arthur dances out of the way. Then Arthur stabs low. The man blocks it, but it requires effort. The man is not used to being on the defense. He is not used to his opponents putting up much of a fight at all. Arthur will use this to his advantage. The knight makes a long, high swing, and Arthur hits his blade on the side, sending it flying. The man is knocked backwards, onto the ground. He looks at Arthur in horror.

Arthur presses his sword to the man’s chest plate and asks calmly, “Do you yield.”

His answer must have been “yes” because Arthur allows him to stand. The crowd cheers. Merlin wonders if perhaps he is louder than the lot of them.

* * *

 

 Merlin finds himself in the prince’s tent quicker than he can imagine. He’s babbling on and on about Arthur’s victories and he knows that he sounds like an idiot, but Arthur’s smiling like a fool.

“Merlin,” he says, “aren’t you forgetting something?”

“Um,” he says, “I’m assuming so, or you wouldn’t have said that.”

Arthur gestures to himself, his whole self, and Merlin realizes that he is _still in full armor._

“Oh gods,” Merlin mumbles, and he hurries to undo the clasp of the upper layer of armor. His hands run gently over Arthur’s armor, and his chainmail is swiftly discarded on the table. Merlin really wants to kiss him right now. And he also wants to do a lot of other things that might not be appropriate.

Arthur coughs for effect.

“Yes?” Merlin asks.

“You could take off my shirt, too,” Arthur says, and his face turns beat-red, “You know, if you want.” It takes Merlin a moment to process his words and his intent, but when he gets them, really gets them, he can’t decide whether to laugh at him or kiss him. He does the latter, his lips slamming into Arthur’s in a complete loss of abandon. Thankfully, Arthur presses back earnestly, his hands tangling themselves in Merlin’s hair. Merlin finds his hands on Arthur’s hips, working to remove his top. Their bodies press together in passionate need as they both struggle to remove their clothes without losing contact. Merlin starts to lose himself in the feel of Arthur’s mouth and of him cock against his leg. The world becomes a bit blurry.

* * *

 

 They do it again. And again. And again. It seems that once they finally start, they _can’t stop._ Sometimes they end up sleeping naked in Arthur’s bed. (Merlin is grateful Gaius does not ask about these times) Sometimes there are whispered sweet nothings. Merlin almost forgets the eerie feeling in the wind. _Almost._

* * *

 

 Gwen comes to him to help with feast preparation. He learns quickly that feasts are a lot of work. He’s almost glad that they never had any in Ealdor. They require a lot of cooking, cleaning, and polishing. He abhors polishing. He’s fortunate that Gwen is such good company.

* * *

 

 The feast itself comes quickly, and so do the distinguished guests. The high table is filled by visiting royalty, with Uther and his children at the center. The surrounding tables are filled by Camelot’s own nobility, and those that are visiting. There is another table set aside for the knights. Banners of bright, Pendragon red hang from the ceiling. The festive feeling dances through the air, almost obscuring Merlin’s constant dread.

“It’s beautiful,” Gwen says, “don’t you think?”

“Yeah,” Merlin says, grasping the wine flagon, “Not sure it was worth all the polishing, though.”

Gwen rolls her eyes, “Oh come off it, Merlin. You’re having fun.” Merlin shrugs. He is having fun. He might be having more fun, but he would be having more fun if he weren’t wearing the hat.

At the high table, Morgause seems to be recounting a story to a visiting princess. Arthur is bright red, and Morgana is almost keeling over in laughter. The princess looks like she’s caught between laughter and embarrassment. Morgause puts a friendly hand on Arthur’s shoulder, and he sends her a halfhearted glare. Merlin smiles. Sometimes he forgets that they are actually siblings.

It reminds him of something, something that is just at the edge of his memory. A brunet village boy with an impish smile, pranks, magic, but he can’t completely remember. He knows that he must be going mad. He shakes away the thoughts. Arthur gestures over to him for more wine. He crosses the floor to his spot at the high table, and only ends up spilling a few drops, which is much better than the first time he tried. He ended up spilling the whole flagon.

He hears Morgana murmur something, and Morgause bursts out laughing. Arthur blushes. Merlin returns to his spot with Gwen, but he suspects that the comment had something to do with him, and Arthur, and probably sex. Maybe some extra curse words thrown in for good measure. Merlin has the decency to blush.

“Cenred,” Uther says, his voice low enough that Merlin almost doesn’t hear him, “Who is the boy?” At the opposite end of Cendred sits a boy who seems no more than nine or ten, and his clothing does not befit a member of the royalty who sit at the high table. Merlin is wondering this as well.

“The boy,” Cendred says, “is actually the reason that I wanted to travel to Camelot at this time.”

King Cendred turns to the boy, and says, “Mordred.” The boy stands and looks to the king. Every pair of eyes turns to him. Merlin can almost remember something, something dreadful, something terrifying, and it has to do with _that_ boy. Merlin is mortified.

“My name is Mordred,” the boy says, his voice soft in a way that makes people really listen when he speaks.

“I come to ask to study magic under the Lady Morgause,” he says, and magic glistens at his fingertips like swirling gold. His icy blue eyes turn gold.

And Merlin remembers. Before, his memories were like a trickle through a breaking dam. Now, the dam has broken, and the water is pouring out. 

It comes all at once, like being trampled by a herd of cattle.

_He hears himself asking incredulously, “You’re telling me that little boy is going to kill Arthur?”_

_A dragon looks at him coldly and tells him the truth as he sees it, “You must let the boy die.” The words echo through Merlin’s mind. A whole lifetime, but those involving Mordred surface the most quickly._

_“The prophecies speak of an alliance of Mordred and Morgana. United in evil,” the dragon warns._

_“I shall never forgive this, Emrys, and I shall never forget,” the boy says, and Merlin knows he means it. Merlin left him to die._

 He staggers as the magic curls at his fingertips. He feels a bolt of pure power hit the ground as his eyes turn gold.

“Merlin,” Arthur asks and he looks confused, a little bit lost. Morgause looks impressed. Merlin shutters.

The only emotion on Morgana’s face is fear. She knows that he remembers.

“I’m sorry,” he hears himself saying, “I don’t know what came over me.”

“Magic came over you,” Morgause says, a sheer delight in her tone, “You have magic.”

“I didn’t know,” he says, looking to his hands. Morgana glares but everyone else looks placated. Merlin has always been a good liar.

“I will teach you,” Morgause says, “both of you.” Merlin feels his skin crawl. _You tried to take over Camelot. You tried to have Arthur kill Uther._

Aloud, he says, “Thank you, my lady.”

The child simply says, “Thank you.” _He will bring Arthur’s doom,_ Merlin thinks. He knows this reality he sees before him is not true, but he does not know what it is. He has never felt so lost, even in his newfound memories. He smiles a smile he hopes looks guileless and not terrified. He hopes no one can tell that he has put on a mask.

* * *

 

 It is weird, and in a way terrifying, not being able to seek Gaius for counsel. But he does not yet know the possibly effects of breaking someone’s delusion here. He will not risk it on Gaius. He will have to face this alone.

During the nights, Merlin lights himself a candle and pours through spell books and grimoires. During the day, he waits on Arthur, sometimes _more_ than waiting, helps Gaius, practices magic, and tries not to let his knowledge show. He does not understand the situation. He knows what is real, and he knows that this is not, but he does not know much beyond that. He does not know if this is a dream or a bent reality or what, but he knows Morgana is behind it.

Despite his dread, Merlin is not positive that the world is maleficent, but he thinks that the world is unraveling. His peripheral is blurring. The world seems less solid than it was before. This scares him, but does not stop his searching. It quickens it.

* * *

 

 Training with Morgause and Mordred is not particularly hard, but that is because Morgause thinks he is at a level much lower than he actually is. He is sure that if she knew his true skill-level, she would challenge him. She is a skilled sorceress. Her power is not as pure and powerful as Merlin’s, but he knows that she has studied longer and he knows that she is much more skilled than he.

* * *

 

His view of the world changes one day when he and Mordred are practicing a simple spell.  
“This isn’t real,” Mordred says within Merlin’s mind, his young face resembling that of the scared child he was the first time that Merlin met him.

“We both know it,” he continues. He looks to Merlin in a way that makes Merlin uncomfortable. It feels as if the boy’s inhumanly blue eyes are piercing his soul.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Merlin responds, though he knows that it’s futile. Mordred knows. Mordred always knows.

Mordred’s lip twitches, which for him, is the equivalent of a smile.

“I remember you leaving me to die, Emrys,” he says, and Merlin’s breath almost stops. He had almost forgotten about that. He isn’t proud of it.

“I’m sorry,” he thinks, but Mordred’s face doesn’t show any forgiveness, or even a hint of a grudge. It’s impassive.

“I understand why you did it,” Mordred says, watching golden magic swirl on his fingers, “You were trying to build a better world. The druids have prophecies about me, ones that say that I’ll kill Arthur.” Merlin doesn’t know how to respond. He left a child to die, this child. He doesn’t know how to make that right.

“But Arthur isn’t to be king in this world,” says Mordred, “so I don’t _need_ to kill him. Everything’s perfect here. No need for prophecies, no need for banes. Magic is legal; Morgana’s queen.”

“You think this is better?” Merlin asks, trying to grasp at the reasons why it shouldn’t be. Why he shouldn’t give up his search for a counter-curse.

“Don’t you?” Mordred asks. Mordred’s eyes glow gold, and he makes a stag out of mist. It snuggles against his chest, and then gallops away.

Morgause’s eyes light up in a way prompted by joy, not magic.

“Mordred!” she says with pride, “You’re making progress!”

She puts a motherly hand on his shoulder and says, “Soon you’ll be better than I am.” Mordred smiles. It does not look out of place on his face. It looks as though it belongs there, as Morgana looks in the princess’ crown. Merlin tries to disagree, but finds it hard to figure out why he wants to.

* * *

 

“How is your training going?” Arthur asks. Merlin thinks that this is not the greatest topic to bring up while tangled together in the morning.

"Um," Merlin says giving him an odd look, "it's going well." 

"That's good," Arthur says, and his face is red. Merlin almost laughs, but instead he just kisses him. There are few better ways to solve a lull in conversation. 

* * *

 

 Merlin searches for the spell nearly every night. But he is too _busy_ some nights. As is the prince.

* * *

 

Eventually, some of the magical books start to fade away. The words are no longer there. Merlin is unsure whether to fear or rejoice that the strength of the dream is fading.

* * *

Morgause insists that he enter the next tournament. She says that it will be a good way to expand his skill set. Merlin thinks that she just wants an excuse to defeat him again in public.

Merlin wishes that he could find the curse soon. The longer that he remains, the harder it will become for him to leave. He is becoming _attached._ To the king who cares for his people and is openly caring with his son, to Morgause, to Morgana, to _Mordred,_ to this happy-go-lucky Gwen and Lance, and most of all to this carefree Arthur who likes to kiss Merlin (among other things). Merlin can feel himself being corrupted. He knows that he should not have allowed this relationship with Arthur to have continued once he regained his memories, but he can’t stop it now. He will never admit it aloud, but he has been in love with the prince since early on in their relationship. Maybe since right after the incident with the cup.

Merlin is not strong enough. He is not smart enough to find the counter-curse quickly enough. And he doubts if he is strong enough to beat either Morgause or Morgana in this tournament.

Arthur is going to laugh at him. Then worry. And then laugh some more.

* * *

 

 Past the arena, the world is fuzzy, but Merlin tries not to let that distract him. He has already defeated two opponents, he can defeat one more. He wants to at least have the dignity of losing to _Morgause._ Mordred lost to Morgana a round ago, and that was respectable. Merlin wants to go out in a way in a respectable way too. He’s stuck here for a while longer, so he might as well make the best of the situation.

Morgause smiles at him. She is proud to be facing her student, and Merlin finds himself thinking of her less as the woman from the real world and more as his teacher. He wonders if this is a bad sign.

Merlin seizes the first move, because he knows that if he does not, he stands no chance at all. It’s a simple spell, meant to trip a person up, but Morgause anticipates it and leaps off the patch of earth. She casts a spell: fire, and Merlin finds himself quickly on the defense. He summons a shield spell just in time to avoid major burns. He throws Morgause back with a nonverbal spell, and for a moment, it looks like he has the upper hand. But Morgause is a trained knight, and she’s back onto her feet before she’s even been a moment on her back. She launches something at him, which might be the same spell, and Merlin finds that this time he is the one on his back. He hears an unfamiliar spell as he tries to struggle to his feet, but a snake crawls onto his stomach and hisses in his face.

“Do you yield?” Morgause asks, a hint of fondness in her tone.

“Yes,” Merlin replies. She speaks the counter-curse, and the snake melts away. She gives Merlin a hand standing up.

* * *

 

 The next round involves a lot of fire and snake based curses, and eventually, a victory for the crown princess. Merlin finds himself clapping and Arthur laughing at him and getting caught up in the heat of the moment. A moment that shouldn’t be happening in a world that shouldn’t be real. Merlin’s dread returns. He needs to find the counter-curse, and he needs to find it quickly.

* * *

 

 After weeks of pouring through material, Merlin finally finds a book that seems promising: _The Sight._ He doesn’t understand how the book was able to avoid his notice for so long.

The table of contents read as follows:

The Sight- 2

The Origins- 10

The Hazy Future- 22

Scrying- 35

Magic and the Sight- 50

Spells for Seers- 64

Merlin considers reading the entire book, just to be certain, but he decides against it, and skips straight to page 64. He skims through the text, and does not start reading comprehensively until the spell: collective unconscious catches his eye.

 **The Collective Unconscious** is one of the most powerful spells at a seer’s disposal. The spell requires not only a powerful and well developed sight, but also powerful magical abilities. The Collective Unconscious allows the caster to meld a world that fits his or her ideal specifications and shape the minds of others to live within them. Much akin to the Defense Time-loop, The Collective Unconscious has been used to try to prevent tragedies. It can be an effective means of preventing atrocities, and keeping the caster’s world in his or her preferred state, but many have questioned the morality of the spell. The spell keeps the caster and the others within the spell alive and well through the use of the powerful magic, and forces them to live in a dreamlike state decided upon by the caster. Many have raised questions about whether or not it is inherently wrong to force one person’s dreams upon others and to strip away a good measure of their free will. The spell also has many drawbacks and its armor has many kinks. It requires a lot of power to maintain, a power that only the most powerful can maintain comfortably. Also, whenever someone within the dream starts to remember the “real” world, the hold of the caster lessens. It is rare for someone within the dream to become self-aware, and if it does happen, the person is likely to have magic himself. His or her very memories start to lessen the effects of the spell. It will blur the visions and the scenery, though only the caster and one remembering will notice the change in scenery. The counter-curse, which can only be uttered from within the spell’s world is áráfe ðæt mætinge: unravel this dream. This spell has been cast few times, and the counter-curse has never been successfully cast. Though it is suspected that the spell áfæstnia, strengthen, if uttered inside the dream’s thrall, could be used to increase the strength of the spell.                                                         Almost every case of The Collective Unconscious has been unraveled solely by the caster’s weakening will. There have been successful cases, few and far between, where the caster and his or her host have lived and died within the dream.

Merlin almost speaks the words right there and then, but he pauses a moment. He slams the book shut, grabs his jacket, puts on his shoes, and sets off.

* * *

Merlin opens the door to the crown princess’ chambers, and mindlessly casts a light charm on her room. She stirs, and then turns to him. She sits up in her white night gown and glares. Morgana says nothing.

“I want the truth,” Merlin says, grasping at his pants. He takes a deep breath, and then looks Morgana right in her sea green eyes.

“Why did you do this?” he asks, though he is not sure he does not know the answer.

Morgana’s eyes dart to the side.

“I don’t know what you mean,” she says, her tone innocent, ignorant, and a bit affronted. She is a passable liar. Merlin might have believed her had he not seen her eyes. The eyes often give away lies.

“The spell,” he says, trying not to let his panic slip into his tone, “ _the collective unconscious,_ why did you cast it on us?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” she repeats, stronger this time. She turns from him, and gets ready to leave.

 “I know this is a dream,” he repeats firmly, “and I can shatter it like a fragile glass if you don’t tell me why you’ve cast it.”

She turns swiftly around and glares at him. Merlin holds his ground.

“If this isn’t reality,” she tells him, the derision in her tone eroding away all pretense, “then what is?”

“Magic is illegal,” he says, though he doesn’t like the way the words feel on his tongue, he never has.

 “Uther is a fearful king,” he says, “But Arthur is to be a better one. You are an enemy of Camelot.”  
“Maybe I don’t want to be,” she says in a tight, pained tone, and she grabs him by the arm. Her eyes are wet with tears, and her face implores him. She stands, and she walks over to him, She seems to think that closeness will help her case.

“I have seen the future, Merlin,” she says, “and it isn’t pretty. If we continue down those paths, our halcyon days are gone.”

She pauses a moment, whether for effect or to collect her thoughts Merlin doesn’t know.

“I will bring about the end,” she says, and her tone is begging him to believe her.

“My soul will be consumed by so much hatred. I don’t want to be that, Merlin,” she finishes, and Merlin has never seen her look so fragile, so desperate.

“I don’t even want to hate Uther,” she continues, and Merlin can see that she’s rambling now, “he’s like a father to me. I don’t want to hate you either. I don’t care that you tried to kill me. You’re still my friend.”

Merlin’s throat constricts in what might be guilt, and he looks into her misty green eyes.

“Let me show you,” she says and she takes a deep breath. She places a soft hand to his cheek, and his mind is flooded with terrifying images: fields of corpses, a maddened Morgana in search of blood, Morgause’s death at Morgana’s hand, Gwen marrying Arthur, Arthur’s demise. Merlin’s breath hitches in his throat.

“Do you understand now,” she asks him severely. Merlin tries not to, but he finds himself nodding slightly.

“I cannot allow that to happen,” she says firmly.

“Is there any other way?” he asks.

“There has to be another way,” Merlin says, grasping at any possibility other than the one he’s been presented.

She looks to him as if his skin turned green.

“There isn’t,” Morgana says.

“I don’t want to be that, Merlin. I don’t want to be full of hatred,” she says, all her emotion pouring out in the words, “I want everyone to be happy.”

“And you think that sealing everyone in a dream is the way to do that?” he demands.

“You think that stealing their free will, Arthur’s crown, is the way to do that?” he continues, anger boiling deep within him.

“I think that it’s the only way,” she says- implores him.

“Uther does not hate,” she says, “his eyes are younger than I have ever seen them. He is open with his affection. Arthur has the love and admiration of his father, and has gained two sisters. The weight of the crown, which always weighed heavy on him, has been removed. Morgause is allowed to be herself freely, the hatred has left her. And I will never have to kill her. Gwen is able to love Lancelot the way she has always dreamt, and she and Arthur will never marry. Magic is celebrated. Happiness reigns.”

“It’s not real,” Merlin tries, desperately grasping for the reason that this is wrong.

“What is?” she asks. Merlin doesn’t know how to respond.

“You could be happy this way, too,’ she says, looking straight into him, “We know you have magic. Here you’re accepted.”

Merlin opens his mouth to protest, and then Morgana almost smiles.

“I guess that’s not the incentive you’re looking for,” she says. Merlin wants to shout, wants to get it through her thick skull that this is wrong, that he doesn’t want this. Nothing will convince him not to shatter her hold like that ancient pot he’d broken on one of his first days as Arthur’s servant. But he isn’t sure that it’s the truth.

“You can be with him,” she says, “I know that you love him, and I think that he loves you back. Here there are no restrictions.” Merlin tries to push the thoughts out of his head. He tries to banish them to the darkest corners of his mind whence they came, but they have already come forth. Once dredged up, dark desires are hard to banish. Stolen kisses and banter and the possibility of nights in each other’s arms paint a vibrant picture in Merlin’s mind, a picture he does not want to abandon.

Merlin bites his lip, and looks to her. She’s smiling widely; the woman knows that she has him. Merlin glares and leaves, and wishes that she didn’t know how deeply she’d hooked him. He wishes that she hadn’t hooked him.

* * *

 

 Merlin does not say the spell the next morning, or the next. He does not say it in a month after during the next tournament or afterwards when Arthur kisses him beneath the stars. He knows the words, knows them better than he knows his own name. They lie constantly in the back of his mind: áráfe ðæt mætinge. _Unravel this dream._ But he cannot voice them. Cannot, will not, it does not matter. The words don’t pass his lips.

He cannot when Uther’s eyes are full of mirth and pride. When Arthur’s eyes glow brightly in happiness and he kisses Merlin beneath the sky and teases him as he always has, but this time with more fondness, without the weight of the world on his shoulders. He cannot, when Morgause is such a good friend and influence. When Lance and Gwen smile at each other like they are the only people in the universe. When Gaius is allowed to use his magic and basks in the freedom it allows him. And Morgana is happier than he has ever seen her, a wonderful, considerate princess who will become a compassionate queen.

Everything started to unravel the moment that Merlin remembered. Merlin knows this. He knows this by the fuzzy spaces in his peripheral vision, from the gaps in other’s memories, from the time lapses. This thought scares him.

He cannot voice the words to destroy the dream, and finds himself not minding. Instead he says a different word: _áfæstnia._ His peripheral vision clears, and Merlin heaves a sigh of relief. Morgana looks to him, and they exchange a private smile. The world seems bright and clear, a sense of rightness in the air.

If this is what dreams are made of, he wants nothing of reality.


End file.
